Four ways to fight a nightmare
by Groovy-Mutation
Summary: After the events of the Great Game, John starts to have nightmares again. Sherlock tries to help... In his own special ways.   Rated M for later chapters.   English is not my mother tongue, please don't hesitate to report any mistake!
1. Chapter 1

We're dead. These words won't stop swirling in my head as I hear the two men enter the room and switch the light on. We're dead. I can feel a drop of sweat running down my temple as I realize our feet are clearly visible from the outside. I cast a glance at Sherlock who seems oblivious to our delicate situation. He is listening to the men, his eyes staring at the door of the cubicle we are hiding in as if he could see right through it.

I try to focus on what they're saying. "He can't speak to you right now. He's keeping quiet until things settle down and this creepy private detective stops running around"

The words are welcome by Sherlock rolling his eyes. I can clearly hear him whispering the words "_consulting_ detective" through pursued lips. There's only one man on Earth who can worry about the label of his job while stuck in a cubicle of a darkened swimming pool. And I share a flat with him.

Suddenly they fall quiet. One of the guy whispers something to the other. Sherlock stiffens, casting me a quick look of warning. All I can hear as I reach for my gun in my inside pocket is the footsteps of one of the men drawing closer. There's no way out. Not this time.

People say your entire life flashes cross your mind when you're about to die. Obviously they never got trapped in a cubicle. Time doesn't slow down in a dramatic fashion. My brain feel completely frozen, I can only register the sound of the footsteps getting louder. I don't think about my family or my friends, nor about the things I regret and the things I would have liked to achieve.

A luck my body doesn't need my brain to react. That's one of the few positive things I learned from Afghanistan : instinct of survival. I draw the gun out of my pocket and point it towards the still closed door, stepping closer to Sherlock. His only weapon is his mind, and all due respect, it won't be of any help in a few seconds. He doesn't even look scared. He keeps staring at the door. There's no trace of fear or resignation in his pale blue eyes, but a glint of anticipation. Maybe he's thinking he's going to solve the biggest mystery of all time.

The footsteps stop next to the door. My heart is pounding in my chest, adrenaline running wildly through my veins. I'm about to fire but a high-pitched voice I wish I didn't recognize paralyses me : "Now now Sherlock, doing dirty things with your pet soldier in a dark cubicle?". I can only stare while the door starts moving slowly. I'm not in charge of my body anymore. "I'm... coming... to get you!"

I wake up to the sound of a gunshot. It takes a few seconds to realize that I'm not dead, that I'm in my bed, that it was only a dream. I try to steady my breathing, repressing a whimper. Bloody nightmares. They won't go away since our last encounter with Moriarty. I lie in the bed for a while, my eyes closed, struggling to calm down. I remember sitting in the study of my therapist : "Nothing happens to me." I snort; It feels like ages ago. I think about the changes my life has been going through over the last few months. About mystery and danger, all the running and the solving. I can't actually remember the last time I slept more than 5 hours in a row. According to Sherlock sleep isn't a necessity but "a choice you would rather not make considering its opportunity cost". I giggle softly. To be honest I wouldn't trade this life for the world.

Maybe that's why I'm so afraid of losing it. I shudder recalling the sound of the footsteps, the deadly and threatening voice, the gunshot... Wait a minute, the gunshot? Panic strikes me when I realize the noise wasn't part of my dream but came from downstairs. After a quick look at the digital clock (4:26 a.m) and still haunted by the voice of Moriarty I get up nervously.

"Sherlock?" Not that I would be surprised by him firing his gun _inside_ the flat, but he's usually considerate enough to wait after 6 a.m to start shooting random things. "Sherlock is that you?" I seize my own gun from the bedside table and head downstairs. "Is everything alright down there?".

My heart miss a beat when I hear a second gun shot and a cry. "Sherlock!" By the time I reach the first floor I already imagined 24 ways Moriarty could have entered the flat and killed him. I don't even bother turning the lights on as I rush into the living room on and nearly stumbles on... Ugh. Never mind.

Sherlock is alone, lying very still on the sofa. As he notices my presence and reluctantly tears his eyes from the screen I curse myself for being so bloody impulsive. He frowns at the sight of the gun in my hand. "John." The voice is quiet, slightly inquisitive. His eyes, previously resting on the gun, begin to scan my face.

"You're... Watching telly.", I answer flatly, the arm holding the gun dangling by my side.

"Your power of deduction is getting more impressive every day John." He loses interest in my presence and turns his face back to the screen. I vaguely recognize an old Hitchcock movie. Typical.

"It's... 4 a.m"

"4:32 to be precise. I couldn't sleep." He dismisses any further question with a wave of the hand.

"So you decided to wake up the whole neighborhood?" I try to sound exasperate but there is unmistakable relief in my voice. A satisfied smile appears at the corner of his mouth. I sigh.

"Why did I agree to share a flat with a sociopath again?"

"_High-functioning_ sociopath", whispers Sherlock absentmindedly, ignoring the taunt. "And at least I'm not the one pointing at the screen with a loaded British Army L9A1. Now please, I'm trying to watch this movie."

I try one last feeble protest, knowing perfectly I won't get any apology for the brutal awakening. "You already know how it ends."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.."

"I-"

"John, take a seat and shut up or go back to bed." He pauses. "Tea in the kitchen.", he adds, extending his arm to hand me his own empty cup. I sigh again and seize the mug, trying to convey as much exasperation as I can in the gesture. I can see his grin growing wider as I fumble my way to the kitchen.

John doesn't notice Sherlock lowering the sound of TV. The young detective smiles to himself. Everything went according to the plan : Nightmares 0 – Sherlock Holmes 1.


	2. Chapter 2

I lost my gun. I vaguely remember dropping it when we got into the pool. I mentally curse myself as the sound of the footsteps is getting louder and louder. Sherlock and I exchange a glance. We don't move, somehow hoping the the pair of legs we can see through the small door will get tired of this game and walk away. But we both know they won't, because we both know whose legs those are. I close my eyes. For a moment the only sounds filling the air are the ondulations of the water, Sherlock's jerky breathing and my heart pounding. Suddenly there's a knock on the door, followed by a giggle. "Knock knock, piggies! I know you're in here... The big bad wolf wants to say hi!" He pauses and knocks again. "Let me in, Let me in, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!" he adds cheerfully. I am petrified. The knocking stops, quickly replaced by a crackling noise. I open my eyes again : flames are erupting from the door of the cubicle. I hear Sherlock koffing, and cover my mouth and my nose with my hand, pushing him against the wall, as far from the fire as possible. The temperature is getting unbearable. I hear Moriarty's laugh, but it fades as the crackling grows louder. Smoke and flames everywhere. Can't see... Can't breath...

I snap out of sleep, gasping for air. The bedsheets are twingled on the floor, The heat in the room is suffocating. I consider opening the window for a while, but doesn't dare to move, fearing to hear the voice again if one of my gesture gives me away. I lay montionless in the bed, frustration tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. 3: 56 a.m. My head is throbbing. Sleep deprivation is making me edgy... I desperatly need to rest.

I've been haunted by those dreams for two weeks now. My nights have become a never ending horrorfest, and my days are hardly more comforting. I get cranky and I'm constantly running at half speed, which is probably the worst thing that can happen when you're living with a high functionning mastermind. We're constantly fighting these days. I even miscalled Anderson "Sherlock" yesterday... I don't know which one of them was the most offended, but for once they agreed on something and sent me away for the afternoon. I ended up falling asleep in a pub in Camden Lock. Add to this the new habit of my flatmate which involves turning TV right up in the middle of the night and you might begin get the picture : my life has turned into a real living hell.

Needless to say I'm not in a really good mood the next morning. I fumble my way to the percolator and pours myself a bowl of coffee. "'Morning." Sherlock doesn't pay attention. He is yelling at a teen drama involving "mysterious" disappearances which are, obviously, not so mysterious for him. I have a monstruous headache and the panicky youngsters are not helping. Seizing the newspaper, I sit in the armchair, scowling. "Could you turn the volume down a bit please?". He might have noticed the snappy tone, because he bothers tearing his eyes away from the screen. He states in a nonchalant voice "You look terrible."

"Yeah, thanks.", I snarl, wondering if he "deleted" tact long ago or actually never tried to learn it at all.

His gaze is back on the screen as one of the girl of the show burst into tears hearing about the disappearance of her boyfriend. Her high-pitched sobs are getting on my nerves. "Please, Sherlock, turn the volume dow-" More angsty cries from the desperate teen. Sherlock utters some exasperated comments as she slams the door of her dorm

"_Sherlock!_".. I'm going to lose it. He doesn't seem to mind.

"OF COURSE IT WAS THE CARETAKER, LOOK AT HIS GLOVES!"

I get up briskly and turns the TV off.

"Hey!" He frowns in indignation.

"Could we _please_ have a quiet morning for once ? It's not enough you have to wake me up _every damn fucking night_ with your film-noir movies, you actually want to ruin breakfast too?"

I wait for the sarcastic answer but it doesn't come. He's merely staring silently at the black screen. I can tell by the way his lower lip twitches that's he's hurt. Not the usual I'm-going-to-sulk-on-the-couch-for-two-hours, but genuinely hurt. I get uncomfortable "Look, it's just.. I had a bad night and..." He turns his head towards the door. "Sherlock-" He gets up from the sofa to take his coat. I try the let's-be-reasonable tone while he crosses the living room : "_Sherlock_". He pauses, as if hesitating, but eventually exit the room and slams the door. That's it. I give up on trying to understand this man. I sigh and drink the rest of my coffee, takes a quick shower and goes outside. I need some air.

I come back to 221B by the evening. I spent the day at Sarah's, dozing on her sofa while she was out for work. I feel slightly better and decide that I owe an apology to Sherlock. After all he's not an expert in social niceties, and it's stupid to hold a grudge against him because of his new TV addiction. It's always better than cocaine.

I'm literaly starving and notice a nice smell coming from the kitchen. I hope for an instant Mrs. Hudson popped in to cook us one of her delicious dish, but my deductive skills don't match my flatmate's, and I am proved wrong as soon as I enter the room, or what you would rather call a battlefield. Smoke is coming from three different places, and several pots are spilled on the table. Sherlock is bending over a busen burner and barely notices my presence.

After pausing in the doorway for a minute, I draw closer carefully, trying to avoid the fragments of broken glass covering the floor.

"Erm.. Hi."

He barely raises his eyes. "Hey."

"What... are you doing?"

"Herbal infusion."

"Oh." I frown and add inquisitively : "And why exactly are you using a busen burner to make an infusion?"

"Because the amount of air mixed with the gas stream affects the combustion reaction. Less air yields an incomplete and thus cooler reaction, while a gas stream provides oxygen in an equimolar amount and thus a complete and hotter reaction.", he answers casually, seizing a box of matches. Dear god.

"I'll rephrase my question : why don't you use some kitchen ustensiles? The red kettle we bought last wee-" I'm interrupted by an annoyed hiss quickly followed by a wave of the hand. "Don't be ridiculous, I'm using it for an experiment on gastric juice."

I close my eyes. I actually liked this kettle. Trying not to think about the weird taste of my yesterday morning tea, I manage to ask in a steady tone : "And _why _exactly are you making an herbal infusion? Did you grow tired of the nicotine patches?". I hope he does, for they are damn expensive. Plus the Tesco chip and PIN machine never fails to recognize them as condoms, and I always have to report to the cashier. She eventually started calling me John.

"Oh, it's not for me..." He mutters, finally seeming satisfied with the temperature of the beverage. Blowing off the flame, he removes his safety glasses and hands me the enrlenmeyer containing the solution. I giggle nervously and shakes my head. "No."

He doesn't move. "Sherlock, I'm not drinking this." I don't find the idea of becoming a labrat really appealing. I know too much about Sherlock's experiments to trust him on this.

"It's merely a herbal infusion."

"You were wearing safety glasses, Sherlock."

He sighs and put the erlenmeyer back on the lab bench, (we stopped calling it the kitchen sink when the first stains of acid showed up). "Fine. But you won't find the solution to your nightmares problem on doctissimo." I cast him an astounded glance. How...? Have I been shouting? I remember shouting when I was having nightmares about Afghanistan, but so far the dreams have involved hiding in a cubicle. Not exactly the best situation to yell at the top of your lungs. "How do you know that?"

"I already tried relaxing music after 10 p.m on you, no results."

I close my eyes. "How do you know I've been having nightmares?"

"You mean apart the fact you looks like a man who haven't been sleeping for the past three months?" He adds some herbs in the enrlenmeyer : "The hair."

"The hair?"

"Your hair, yes, obvioulsy.".

"What about my hair?" I'm giving him an opportunity to show off. I know he loves this. He smiles quickly and draw a deep breath before enunciating in an analytic tone :

"They used to be flat on the right side of your head on mornings" With a hand gesture he locates the said spot on his own head. "Since you often go to bed with your hair still wet, it means you were falling asleep on your right side and hardly moved during the night. These days, however, you wake up completely dishevelled, but you haven't stop washing your hair on evenings. There is thus a change in the way they dry, because you have troubles falling asleep and usually struggle to find a comfortable position ; maybe because you're not tired enough, more probably because you're afraid of what you might see if you close your eyes. The matted hair suggest you keep writhing during the night, which leads us to disturbing dreams. Conlusion : You have been having nightmares for two weeks and don't know how to get rid of them." I look at him in bafflement. I will never get used to this. Noticing my confusion he adds casualy "Oh, and you've been shouting my name.".

Considering the sudden rise of temperature in the room, I might be turning bright red. One is pretty quick to feel uncomfortable when displaying fear for a sociopath who claims caring is man's greatest weakness on a regular basis. "I.. have I?"

A devilish smiles appears on his lips "Yes you have." He seizes the infusion and quickly closes the gap between us, stopping inches from my face. I am now certain he deleted personal space too. I draw back instinctively, stumbling on the process on a test-tube and bumping into the nearest wall. More blushing ensues.

He frowns and makes a funny face. "You screaming my name in the middle of the night... People might talk. Mrs. Hudson already does." He thrust the erlenmeyer into my hand, and notice I am more aware of his fingertips brushing my wrist than I should healthily be. In a second he's back in front of the sink, washing his laboratory apparatus. I stare stupidly at the beverage.

"It's actually more efficient when you drink it."

"Yes. I. Yeah. Well... erm.. Thanks." I still can't get over the fact he wasted his oh-so-precious time brewing me _an herbal infusion_. Especially after the events of this morning. A hurt Sherlock rarely turns into a caring friend. Let me rephrase that : A hurt Sherlock _never _turns into a caring friend. I look back at him. After a last second of hesitation and smiling weakly at his encouraging nod, I drink the infusion in a single gulp.

Sherlock chuckles as he watches my reaction before rushing out of the room.

Waking up in the morning, John realizes with amazement and satisfaction he slept like a baby. Rushing to the bathroom for the morning pee, he notices with a smile his hair are flat on the right side of his head.

He still wonders if the pepper was really necessary, though.

Sherlock Holmes 2 – Nightmares 0.


End file.
